


Halfway Between the Black and Gray is No Place for a Life to Waste Away

by Hopestill



Series: A Character Study in Red [3]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Blood, Canon Atypical Violence, Mishima gets beat up: the fanfic, Other, Whump, kamoshida is a dick but what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 08:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopestill/pseuds/Hopestill
Summary: The gym teacher's one-on-one punishments were all unspoken secrets that fluttered about Shujin Academy, and one poor soul is about to find out what exactly is entailed in them. Kamoshida has strange gym equipment in his office. Mishima struggles with his self worth. Ryuji doesn't quite know what to do.





	Halfway Between the Black and Gray is No Place for a Life to Waste Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and good morning I'm 40 hours into Persona 5 and I'm in Confidant Hell with Mishima, and naturally when you love a character you write whump fic at 2 AM.  
> r-right?  
> Ryuji gets like a single line in this fic and Kamoshida is himself but moreso.

Every step Mishima took towards the stairs felt heavier and heavier - was it how his feet seemed to nearly drag across the floor, sore and aching from the laps he was constantly forced to run around the gymnasium? Or was it from the ugly, misshapen purple bruises running up his legs, his chest, his arms, his neck, his cheeks, barely hidden by clothing and haphazardly placed bandages? Was it from how the other students, his _classmates_ , the closest people he could attempt to call his friends, all stared at him before shaking their heads and scurrying away into their own respective corners?

 

They knew what was happening. He knew what was happening. How could he not? When he came in last place once again during Kamoshida’s grueling training, after one too many volleyballs slammed into his face, and saw the disapproving simper grow across the gym teacher’s face, he knew all too well what was coming up. Ryuji, the only other person who had been through what that look meant, had put a strong hand on his shoulder and simply shook his head as he limped out of the gymnasium.

 

“My office, 5 PM. I have to talk to you about your... lackluster performance on the team. I think a discussion on the best way to discipline you would be beneficial, wouldn’t you agree?” Kamoshida had said those words with a disapproving shake of his head and arms folded over his chest. Nothing else said to or around him seemed to properly register for the rest of the day. Forget about teachers’ lectures, classroom gossip, or even the general hum of life itself, that all disappeared from his mind. Mishima had heard nothing but horror stories about Kamoshida’s special “one-on-one” punishments. Ryuji never told anyone what had happened to him, but given the way he guarded his left leg whenever Kamoshida was near and the slight, ever-present limp he had... Well.

 

It turned Mishima’s stomach to just think of what had happened to Ryuji.

 

What _could_ happen to _him_.

 

He tried to stifle a whimper, shove it back deep down inside him - who was he kidding, he was never the bravest or the strongest of his class. There was a reason he was always picked on, why he was singled out in each of his classes as the butt of mean-spirited jokes, or the person who was a free meal ticket for some bully who would “forget” to bring his lunch that day. Getting hit in the face with the volleyball each practice meant no one else would - theoretically. So why was this so hard? Him whimpering and sniffling his way to a teacher-mandated punishment was exactly the sort of fate a zero like him was destined to. Why did he bother praying for anything different each and every night?

 

If anything, he should take pride in it. At least his punishment means no one else would get punished, right?

 

Of course not. He knew that. The school knew that.

 

The hallway to Kamoshida’s office was empty, and the shadows extended out from the sunset light shining through the few windows on the third floor. At this point, the murmurings of classmates had drifted away from him, out the door and away to their families. It was just him, the emptiness stretching out before him, and what awaited him at the end.

 

The thought of what awaited him behind Kamoshida’s closed doors slowed him down further - maybe he could savor this anxiety-riddled time before his punishment?

 

He could already feel the tears running down his bruised cheeks, and a shiver made him wrap his arms around himself as he trudged onward, feet heavy and plodding down the creaking boards. Each creak moaned and echoed, the sort of sound he wanted to make but was too scared to. He bit his lip so hard, so tightly, that his lip cracked and blood oozed out and down his chin. _It matched with the dried bits of blood around his nose_ , was a thought he didn’t need to entertain but came to mind regardless of how he felt. He laughed a little at how absurd that was, and glanced to the side.

 

“You’re late, Mishima.”

 

He felt a strong hand drag him into the messy P.E. office by his shoulders - his feet tripped over themselves and his arms swung wildly to keep balance. Mishima took a look around - few people had truly been inside the P.E. office, so maybe there was something he could glean from the room that tell his classmates, something that would finally stop Kamoshida. Various books and magazines strewn about the floor, empty instant noodle cups scattered across the desk, and what appeared to be a cheap futon bunched up in a corner made the room look much more like a college student’s dorm rather than a professional’s office. What looked like a pile of bright red rope laid across the futon, already knotted in a few places like a strange net. What did Kamoshida _do_ up here?

 

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” The gym teacher’s bellowing shook Mishima away from his analytic stupor, and he flinched away.

 

“I-I know! I’m sorry, sir, I-”

 

“I don’t want to hear your shitty excuses!” Kamoshida buried his knee in Mishima’s stomach, a grimace on his face as the young man yelped, covering his mouth in shame. “You’re holding the team back, Mishima, and I think you know it. Why don’t you simply work harder?” The only response was a choked cough - a few specks of phlegm landed on Kamoshida’s clothing and Mishima swore he saw bright red - and a groan. The palm of Kamoshida’s hand slammed into Mishima’s nose, sending the poor boy stumbling backwards, landing on the ground with a sharp _thud_. The amount of difficulty it took to breathe told Mishima that the barely healed wounds in his nose had reopened, and the blood landing on his pants only confirmed that. He pressed the back of his hand against his nostrils and, like a terrified animal, barely met Kamoshida’s gaze.

 

With that, he picked Mishima up by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. Static and snow encroached Mishima’s vision as a breath he didn’t realize was holding onto was forced out of his lungs. He struggled and kicked at the air, hearing only Kamoshida’s laughs as a response. His shaking arms wrapped around Kamoshida’s arm and, shifting his body weight, Mishima pushed down against him, trying to gain leverage, pull him off of him, do anything to help, but his attempts could be described as pititful at best. Kamoshida merely laughed, using his free hand to grab Mishima’s hair and twist him to the ground, a sickening _crack_ sound echoing from his shoulder upon impact with the floor. Mishima screamed out, tearful eyes gazing up at his teacher, who simply shrugged and planted a foot on his stomach.

 

“Let me tell you something, if it’ll get through that thick skull of yours.” Mishima squirmed away from the hot breath suddenly stinging his face. “I’m going easy on you, because you’re just not worth my time. However, the last teacher left these here, and I never did get a chance to use them. Consider yourself lucky.”

 

With that, what felt like sharp nails raked themselves across Mishima’s chest, tearing the turtleneck of his uniform open. A muffled scream escaped though the hand Mishima was holding up to his mouth as his gaze fluttered between Kamoshida and the crampon he was gripping. “Good! You know no one else should hear what’s going on, at least.” Red flecks bubbled up from the now exposed skin, and nasty raised lines crossed his chest. The young man rolled over, head spinning, nose bloodied, and began to curl up into a ball - only to be kicked again onto his back.

 

Kamoshida’s hand grabbed a chunk of Mishima’s hair, and pulled him back up to a sitting position. Mishima flinched away, eyes closed, shivering underneath the strong grip - his body was braced for any sort of shock, or slap, or _anything_ physical. At this, Kamoshida merely laughed lowly, tightening his grip on his hair, feeling a few hairs pluck off his scalp and scatter to the floor or snap in his hand.

 

“Some of us are destined to be the best, Mishima. Others, like you, are what we strong trample on. You’re never going to amount to anything - you’ll be used and discarded, tossed between person to person like some sort of toy. And that’s giving you the benefit of the doubt.” Mishima barely opened his eyes to see Kamoshida looking down at him with what looked like a twisted form of pity in his eyes. His voice was low, and monotone. “The truth is, Mishima, you’re less than useless. I know the corner of the school where you go to cry when you think no one’s looking - do you honestly think that’s going to get you some sort of sympathy? I know what forums you post on online in some misguided attempt to rally people against me. You can’t even ask for help in person? You have to hide behind a fake name? You disgust me. This school, and my team, would be better off with you dead.”

 

Kamoshida turned around, and went back to his desk in the corner of the room, tossing some balled up papers over his shoulder toward Mishima. “Well? Get out of my office, I shouldn’t have to spell it out for trash like you - I’m a busy man.”

 

Mishima felt his arms shake underneath him as he pushed against the floor, muscles seizing and twitching as he stood up slowly, holding his stomach close to him as if he was scared of losing it alongside his dignity. He shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him. It took all of his strength and fortitude to not simply collapse outside the door - or worse yet, vomit whatever was bubbling up in his pain-addled stomach.

 

No, instead he stumbled down the stairs through the dark building, catching himself on the handrail when he missed the final step. He felt dried tears on his cheeks, and his eyes were half-closed and unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. The building was already encased in twilight, the last shreds of light stretching out, beyond the shadows consuming each corner of the building.

 

Down here, Kamoshida wouldn’t hear him... Right?

 

Did it even matter if he heard anymore?

 

He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, the pitiful sobs oozing out from his lips, stumbling over each other, as he put on his shoes and began the walk of shame back to his parents’ house. With a prayer - or mantra, with how often he repeated it under his breath - to not bump into anyone he knew, he walked down alleyways and winding paths, behind businesses and homes, taking an extra half hour of aching steps on the long way home.

 

\--

 

His parents weren’t home when he finally collapsed against the door, falling into the entryway as the door swung open and bounced off the doorstopper. The impact was probably the least painful thing about the day, but he still grimaced as he dragged himself up the stairs - kicking the door shut - and to his room. The fall reopened one of his wounds, and he almost screamed upon feeling the new dampness cling to his torn shirt.

 

Telling his parents he was learning sports medicine as an elective was one of the best cover stories he could have thought of. His room was stocked with bandages, adhesives, antiseptics, and more, stuffed haphazardly in any dresser or drawer nearby whenever someone would knock on his door. They were _obviously_ meant for his teammates, since he was primarily a benchwarmer, and most _definitely_ not for _him_. The amount of people who believed him at face value, even when his own face was a palette of purple, crimson, and yellow hues was almost  _hilarious_.

 

It was hard to convince himself that he even deserved to treat his own wounds, but the sharp pain from the cuts in his stomach overpowered every instinct in his brain. He stripped off his ripped turtleneck, wincing at the red lines crossing his chest. Those would leave some scars, he thought with a grimace, as he rummaged in one of the drawers to his left for rubbing alcohol and cotton pads.

 

Self-preservation almost felt like a curse at this point. Mishima panted while watching the rubbing alcohol soak through a cotton pad. The impending feeling of stinging, like a thousand needles stabbing him (as if he wasn’t already intimately familiar with it, how he’d bite down on a pillow or his hand or a jacket or his tongue to stop from crying out if his family was home) never prepared him for how it actually felt. As he slowly applied the cotton pad across his stomach, he grunted and gasped and shook, voice already far too hoarse. Quickly afterwards, bandages haphazardly stuck across the worst parts of his stomach. Did it truly matter if they overlapped, or left some wounds open to the air? Or even if the sticky, tan bandages weren’t the optimal ones to use for this situation? No one would know.

 

Mishima sat in the quiet of his room, breathing barely steadying against the shaking heaves of his chest. He looked up at the ceiling, and exhaled a sigh that should have been steady; instead, it rattled.

 

Everything was simply too much.

 

No one was around, it was ok, right?

 

It was still ok to cry?

 

He didn’t know anymore.

 

There’s one type of crying he prayed no one he loved would have to hear from him. The type of wailing you only hear when someone has just lost everything, wracked sobs shredded apart by screams and wails echoing from deep in his lungs, the cacophony punctuated by hot tears cascading down his face, snot dripping from his nose, dark eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to shut out the world around him as he hugged a pillow to his chest, twisting it in some vain attempt to feel powerful, feel something other than the despair tearing apart his thoughts and leaving him with nothing except what Kamoshida told him. What everyone around him thought.

 

_You’re worse than useless._

 

At some point each week, he found himself on the floor like this. It was almost a regular occurrence for him, except the way he cried this time around was so horrifically childish - each pathetic noise he made sent his emotions into overdrive, and each pang of anxiety in his stomach rendered him unable to do anything except sit there, pound his fists into the floor and pillow meaninglessly, and cry, and sob, and _wail_.

 

How much longer could he last?

 

Yuuki Mishima couldn’t answer that question honestly.


End file.
